dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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Sun just up, tossing a deep-amber line of light across the harbor with the hissing sound of a spreading net. What would Sun fish for, but Souls? Before one note of traffic, a mourning dove chanted from a rooftop its three-note arc in a key equal to the cello. I admit it, I got caught up, resisting temptation toward more familiar desires, listening for previously unheard answers.



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